


The Phantom of the Opera

by Mer_des_Miroirs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mer_des_Miroirs/pseuds/Mer_des_Miroirs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not easy to stage a perfomance if the theatre is haunted - be it by the customary Ghost; be it by the voice of an Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**“Phantom of the Opera”**

**I.**

As Harry was six, his mother left for the theatre one evening, and never came back.

Harry goes looking for her.

He is searching still.

***

“If you would, Tom…”

Harry is pushed against the wall by the desire in his chest; his toes curl as if preparing for flight.

“I loved you” Tom chants.

“I loved you. For your love my soul burns…”

Tom sings heartache with a genuine boredom. Harry shudders in charm, depth and woe escaping Tom’s velvet mouth. Hard stones scratch against Harry’s inflamed cheek.

Tom’s voice is of icy mountains, and hidden valleys, and moonless sky. He is the Faust in pursuit of forlorn knowledge, whose soul is torn, then – sold, then – no more!

Tom acts a Faust of simple lusts, but beware, Marguerite! The public might be blinded by strong shoulders and carved half-smile, as Tom offers his hand to the golden maid, Harry listens to each exhale of Tom’s lips, as Harry shivers in the half-darkness, hidden in an empty loge, frozen in a narrow corridor, the voice and he, alone.

There is no hope for Marguerite, no love in Tom’s velvet music.

“Ah, do not mind my love! My Love, you be free from sorrow...”

Amusement and despair, curiosity and disgust intermingle as Tom delves into romance, recites time-worn lines – Harry closes his eyes.

“Bravo! Bravo!” cries out the composer, just as fascinated, just as in love. Mr. Black cannot miss these dark steely tunes escaping Tom’s throat. He oftentimes interrupts during the rehearsals, taking his star aside, asks for a song.

Mr. Black writes a new opera with Tom’s voice in mind. The magnitude of emotion that Tom gives his art – and never his every day interactions – Mr. Black strives to capture and forge into a crown to be placed upon curly hair and eyes full of _weltschmerz_.

Mr. Black scribbles on music sheets, fingers drown in ink, he hums a bad replica of Tom’s _bel canto_.

Tom dances.

***

Harry dances at night.

Silently, Harry passes the entry hall, where the old watchman chats, sharing last drink with his cat. What was bursting in life and colour at day, glittered in the evening, is now the realms divided.

Mr. Filch hunts for intruders to the theatre’s heavy doors. Mrs. Norris reassumes her war against the rat kingdoms of the basement and loft. Harry’s is the stage.

Carefully, Harry places a single candle on the stool in the corner. Out of his way, as to prevent an accidental fire, there is little light, and Harry stays of the shadows.

He twists and pulls and fastens the ribbon, securing shoes of greyed satin to his feet. Harry rescued them from the garbage pile, cleaned from blood; sew and re-stuffed the toes. Now they hold his thin body, as Harry jumps high, reconnects with the stage; and he spins till even the best technique no longer prevents drowsiness. And he falls, knuckles against wood, heavy breath.

It is a hard job to appear weightless; not possible to fly.

Harry needs of his mother's arms – lean and strong holding to his child body, and swirling, and swirling.

Lily laughed beautifully, her hair aflame. It snowed.

Lily Evans is the name on many a paper sheet adorning Harry’s room – cut out from old magazines, and a collection of posters all exclaim his mother’s triumphs – from Effie to Giselle.

She was _the_ Giselle, the first and the last one to dance the young peasant girl, who seduced by her prince’s promise of love watched him to marry another. It was the most proper choice, but Giselle danced. She bent, she spun, she twisted. She screamed without words, her face betrayed madness. She run quick and unseeing, and jumped down the pit.

With a broken neck Giselle is a wild creature, a ghost to haunt her once lover… Her forlorn son. 

Harry studies Odette. “Swan Lake” is Mr. Black’s masterpiece to be performed for the first time. Already to begin with, Odette is cursed to be a swan by day, girl by night, true love alone can save her. Prince Siegfried offers his help, his heart. He falls a victim to deception, he stays true.

Harry enjoys Odette’s part - the smooth movement of hands, as if flying; the haunting music he can hear still.

Exhausted, Harry retrieves his candlelight.

There is a single rose next to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to escape The Writing Block, I am hoping for short but regular updates.
> 
> "Faust" is an opera by Charles Gounod, based upon the poem by the same name by J.W. Goethe. From what I have seen of its libretto, it behaves to the book about life, as a Hollywood film about love. 
> 
> Effie is a part from "La Sylphide", here a girl who was left by her groom because of a suppernatural female. Giselle is the heroine of the ballet by the same name. 
> 
> "Swan Lake" is a ballet by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky for whom Mr. Black apparently substitutes in this fictive almost Russia of 1877. 
> 
> The verse Tom sings is a very loose & short translation from the first half of A. Pushkin's poem - "I loved you". A better translation would be for example - 
> 
> "I loved you; even now I may confess,  
> Some embers of my love their fire retain;  
> But do not let it cause you more distress,  
> I do not want to sadden you again.
> 
> Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly  
> With pangs the jealous and the timid know;  
> So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,  
> I pray God grant another love you so."
> 
> Here [a version from youtube. ](http://youtu.be/o9d3_JXc6os)
> 
> \----  
> Summarised, I have no idea what the hell I am doing (hence the deficient rating). But I always loved theatre.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

With six Harry is kept inside. Lily taught her son to read, and whenever she left for the theatre, Harry opened a book, imagined black forests to white castles. Stayed awake until Lily tiptoed to his side, kissed his hair, shared a lullaby.

Harry dreamt of music and fairy tales.

Now he is them.

***

Harry watches the rose with the sharp stem; its sepals enviously guard a weak blossom, as it was cut before the full bloom. Harry dislikes the thought of letting the rose bud wither. Its smell is faint and sweet, and petals - a shy red. Its promise of beauty shattered.

Water and sun! With candle and flower Harry feels for his room, as feet caress the steps in a learnt by heart melody, Harry rises.

In its fifty year old history the theatre building has been modified thrice, each new architect facing the existent construction with all vigour of a penultimate vision. In short: walls were torn, as walls were shaped, the arches drawn, and corridors let with no regard for its predecessor. Messier Rosier would not endure for slopes to taint his neo-classical attic, thus Harry’s long bent place originated. With insufficient allowance in both time and money Messier Rosier’s workers did not suffer to properly dismantle the superfluous low windows, and Harry has light.

Harry’s place is remarkably decorated. Of a similar mind as the men who made the theatre’s body, each director imagines his show in a striking detail. He cannot re-use these hideous out of fashion costumes, props, scenery. Moved to the theatre’s many storages, discarded things are the foundation to Harry’s kingdom and Harry’s identity.

Harry’s room of one-season-glitter spells of the summer outside with air hot-heavy. It is the edge of the summer break, where no performances are given but new works are taken upon, which deprives Harry of his beloved flowers. An iris, a tulip, a peony – all ways to show one's adoration of the artist’s grace; betimes the flower choice, betimes the giver are less than appreciated.

“I am having a headache!” Harry watched gentle hand to lose hold of an arum lily, as its owner departed in a hurry. Harry cradled white petals to sick chest, and let go would not.

Harry nuzzles his rose. Water fills in Parsifal’s cup – the Wagnerian Gala met not the tender tastes of the audience, and was not repeated.

Harry shortens the stem slightly, they fit – flower and chalice, and places them an offering to the deity of dawn.

His bed once housed fair Juliet. Harry disrobes preparing to take his rest. It is day.

It takes a bouquet of red fragrance that Harry asks for the source.

***

The pancakes have a following on their own. His nose leads Harry downstairs, where Mrs. Weasley prepares for one high visitor or another. She stuffs them with sugared plums and sour cherries, hence Professor Dumbledore being expected. Lord Malfoy, another of the theatre’s patrons, favours red and black caviar.

Madame McGonagall helps herself to a cup of sweetened tea -

"I must have you know, Molly, that Ginny was weak on her feet this morning. If not for Tom's great insistence, as it was with him that she practiced, I would send her away and have Miss Greengrass to take over."

There is the steady sound of wooden ladle against brass bowl, as Mrs. Weasley attempts a third filling of creamy soft cheese. Harry dismisses the low growl in his stomach, as it is not the mealtime yet.

"She is but the girl her age, Minerva, and dear Tom is so good to her." Mrs. Weasley remarks. A silent - "Where you are not!" follows.

"I merely expect that she is up to her responsibility" Madame McGonagall clarifies. "I want Ginny a dancer, not a lovesick child."

"For what it takes, her choice favours my daughter!" The cooking gains a new level of audibleness. Harry, who is separated from the setting by a wall, knows to read the proceedings as the fight between two women: one being a proud mother, whose darling daughter miraculously escapes the corps de ballet for a leading part. The other is not only prince Siegfried's fictive progenitor, but a prima ballerina in her own right, the old mentor to a girl with red hair, green eyes.

Ginny Weasley has the looks of Lily Evans and her spirit.

The comparison pains.

Mrs. Weasley puts three pancakes one of each kind upon the low counter, whereas the lion's share is served on an ornamented plate to be taken upstairs.

"You keep doing it!" laughs Madame McGonagall, points to the food.

"And for ten years our theatre has flourished! I know a happy house ghost from an angry one. And besides, my best thimble is missing!"

Harry fingers the metal cup. As Mrs. Weasley had not a hunch whatsoever of its whereabouts, it took days to discover.

Women exit. Harry casually pulls a piece of the wall aside; returns the thimble, washes the dishes too. Savours a breakfast with the happiest of hearts. Has to attend the rehearsal.

Tom is not a man to leave waiting. His curse holds.

They find ashen footprints leading to the stage and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Parsifal" is an Opera by Richard Wagner. It kind of hurt our chronology with its later date of origin, but I not care.
> 
> I have every intention to stick to Harry's point of view, so... ^^
> 
> Till the next time!


End file.
